More On Chopin

In a course description that I once offered at the New School I wrote that Chopin is popularly known for his lovely melodies.   And they are and he is.

But then I go on to say that he offers much much more than that.   I say that he offers the finest in  the craftsmanship of his music.   He is occasionally as profound and challenging as any of the composers of the first rand in his ability to create and develop themes, variations, creating forms that are sublimely beautiful.  His style of writing for the piano is perfect, and no one has exploited the potential of the instrument like he did. 

But what about those melodies.  My God, they are really beautiful.   I am listening to the Nocturnes right now, one after the other, all of them.    And I am intoxicated.   There is nothing like a beautiful melody by Chopin.  It connects the human ability to sing with the mechanism of the piano, the most extraordinary instrument ever created, let's face it.  Such melodies render a kind of out-of-body experience if you let it.  If you listen intently to such a passage as contains one of Chopin's finest melodies, you become the melody; it lives inside you;  it is as if you are singing it, creating it, along with Chopin, along with the pianist, along with the piano.   You become one with all of them, you transcend time and space, and are in the presence of Chopin himself, in reality, he is there, and God, however you think of a Deity, is there too.   It is the language of the Universe embodied in sound, mystical sound, perfected sound, sound that comes from. . . where?   

There is no experience like this.

On, "The Jolson Story."

I just watched, The Jolson Story, for the fortieth time and once again, was thoroughly entertained from beginning to end.     The question I have is:   "Is it a good motion picture?"   If so, why?  If not, why not? Sounds like a question on a High School final exam.    That's what it feels like.    It's almost a stupid question. But no, I mean it.  

No one, I mean no one in the history of the Broadway stage had a career like Al Jolson.   This should have been a key point of the film.   It was not.   In fact, there was much about Jolson's stage career that was so crucial to understanding his success and legendary status that was omitted.    Primarily, Jolson was first and foremost perceived to be a comic figure.  Advertisements for his show referred to him as the "Winter Garden Comedian,"  not the singer.  The character he portrayed in so many shows, Gus Jackson, was a type of harlequin, and his charm and attraction lay in his ability to make you laugh.  And it wasn't only Gus Jackson's foibles, it was Jolson coming out of character, having discussions with the audience, making topical jokes, etc, that so beguiled audiences.     One never knew what one was going to get from an evening of Jolson at the Winter Garden.  

Of course, there was his voice, which was said to make the walls vibrate.  An oddly powerful voice, it seems, but nevertheless expressive to the extreme.   Jolson could make you laugh and he could make you cry, and usually did both within a short span of time.   What was it about his voice, his "persona," that made him such a magnetic and electrical stage performer?   Gilbert Seldes called his presence, "demonic."   Did he tap into some unseen force that only a few artist-shaman could tap into?   Judging from the reviews and audience accounts, that's exactly what he did.   His presence was often said to be "magical."  

None of this was made clear in The Jolson Story.   Probably the most important and salient point about Jolson was not addressed.    But then again, how could it?  Could it?  It  would have taken some very good and pointed script writing to make that clear.   But it should have been made clear.   No doubt.

But the film succeeds.   In fact, it succeeds on a grand scale.   Why?

First, there is Jolson himself.   Unlike any other biographical depiction of any star, we hear Jolson himself singing.    We don't have Cohan dancing in Yankee Doodle Dandy, or, Fanny Brice joking around at the New Amsterdam theater in, Funny Girl.   Again, no Cohan in, George M, and no Chauncey Olcott in, My Wild Irish Rose.    Jolson's voice is unique and indefinable in it's beauty and expressiveness.   It is the star of this movie.    But Larry Parks portraying Jolson, I must admit, does an outstanding job of creating a Jolson style of bodily movement that is highly successful on film, and very attractive.   He exudes emotion and a love of entertaining.   No doubt.   As an actor Parks was. . . meh, middle of the road.   But what he did as Jolson deserves great accolades.   It is said he listened and experiment with his motions by standing in front of two huge speakers with Jolson's voice blaring out of them.   He wanted his movements to reflect his inner experience of the songs, and he did so fabulously.  

Secondly, there is a kind of "sweep" to the film.   It begins at the turn of the last century, which is depicted rather well in costume and scenery, then jumps to what could best be described as the "present," (1940's) in style.    One has the feeling that a great deal of time has passed.   This is certainly reflected in the music and in the choices of songs.

Lastly, there is the ending.   A very, very unusual ending for a Hollywood movie.  The boy loses the girl.  One is left with a feeling of. . . not sadness but of poignancy, of the feeling that one has just seen a film that expressed reality and has jarred our expectations.    It is beautifully done, and the perfect  choice.

So successful was the film after its release that a sequel was made, Jolson Sings Again.   It marks the only time in history that a single performer has had two bio-pics made during their life-time.   High praise for the "World's Greatest Entertainer."  

Entertainer.   That is the key word.  

Anyone been entertained much lately?

SAINTS OF THE BOWERY

The Bowery of 1890 or so, was a dangerous, filthy place, as was much of the city below 14th street.   Criminals of every kind took root there, and every imaginable evil thrived.   (See Luc Sante's, "Low Life," for an excellent exploration of the seamier side of life in New York during that period).    But there was also several nationalities of immigrants attempting to work, live, and indeed, prosper, inhabiting the area as well.   Life was difficult and many were tempted into lives of crime or of debauchery and dissolution through drugs and/or alcohol.   There were no shortages of drug dens, bars and saloons where one took one's very life into one's hands by entering.   Death lurked everywhere, from either murder, or foul drink, or disease. 

Amid the ugliness, filth, and danger were places of hope: churches of various faiths and other benevolent institutions.   One in particular fought the devil in the very midst of it's own depravity and ugliness.   It was established by the Methodist Church to serve the men and women of the Lower East Side, and anyone who needed or wanted help on the Bowery itself.  It was called, "The Church of All Nations."   

The Church of All Nations.    It's a name worthy of repeating.  No one was turned away.   In it's early history attendance to its various functions, services and events was low.  It's effectiveness and existence was called into question.  

Then, a dynamic Reverend and his indomitable wife arrived upon the scene.   There names were Rev.  William M. Stonehill and Mrs.  Emilie Daisy Stonehill.   They arrived from England where they had engaged in a life of service and sacrifice, first as officers in "The Salvation Army," and then, upon the Reverend's pastor-ship.   They had a reputation of being extremely devoted to the cause of their fellow man, and for their indomitable spirit.   Both would be called upon in the unsavory and dangerous world of New York's Lower East Side of the newly arrived 20th century.

The Reverend Stonehill was a large, athletic man, whose powerful presence and genuine love of man and Christ caused him to bring many to salvation, if not spiritual then certainly temporal.    Church attendance soared.  Hundreds began to attend regular service, receive meals and direction away from sin and vice.  The Church of All Nations became a haven for the lost and orphaned who might otherwise have degenerated into a life of crime, drugs, or worse.

The Reverend became lovingly referred to as, "The Bishop of the Bowery."  His dynamic speaking style, his devotion to God and the message of Christ and his sincere love of all he encountered, without judgement, made the Church overwhelmingly successful.  Mrs. Stonehill, too, was an active social worker, working particularly with women and for women's rights.  She authored two books, "The Broken Pinion," focusing on the plight of the unwed mother,  and, "Rushlight Poems" a collection of poems.   Her tireless efforts saved hundreds of women from terrible fates.   

Tragedy struck when in 1908 the Reverend Stonehill died suddenly from what was guessed as some form of food poisoning.   Hundreds attended his funeral.  This is from his obituary in the Epworth Herald, a publication of the Methodist Church:

"For he had taken the world--the lost world--into his bosom.  By day he visited and taught and helped.   By night he walked the Bowery searching for the broken-hearted.   Everyone knew him.   All loved him."

Emilie continued on, bravely, fighting for the rights of the poor and for unwed mothers, a cause close to her heart.    

And so, keeping up the good work while intermittently traveling back and forth from her native England, Emilie fought the good fight.   She even raised a nephew, Ranald, during those difficult years.  He went on to become a professor of Engineering at Drexel University and authored a still used (!) textbook on fluid dynamics, whatever that is. 

Eventually, by the late 1910's it was clear that the Church needed a new building.   One was finally built in 1923.   It incorporated part of the area bounded by the Bowery but went through the block all the way to Second Avenue.   It was a huge, impressive, and highly functional building.   It contained two gyms, a swimming pool, and many rooms for arts and crafts, dance, and all manner of events.  There was also a chapel where worship according to any faith could be, and was, respected and practiced.    It was the center of healthy activity at a time when only the wealthy could afford such luxuries.   

During the decade of the 1930's a young man named Joseph Giglia became director of the Church under the auspices of Miss Thelma Burdick of the Methodist church.  (Joseph Giglia was my beloved uncle).  Together,  along with a group of dedicated and gifted workers and councilors, they continued the extraordinary work established by the Stonehills.  My own parents and all of their friends and relatives joined the Church and spoke of it as if it were a holy place, which in some ways, I think it was.  They spoke of dances, of playing sports, and meeting celebrities there, but what I took from their recollections was the joy of being with others in a wonderful and safe atmosphere where one could be at one's best, even soar.  

How many children were welcomed into the Church of All Nations, it is impossible to say.   How many lives were saved, or turned around by this extraordinary organization is also impossible to say.  Probably, they number into the hundreds of thousands.    Think of how many grew into healthy adulthood and then contributed to the over health and wealth of this country.

Emilie eventually retired to a small house in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, on Franklin Avenue near Monroe Street.  She kept a small garden in the back yard and visitors were always welcome.   Her living room was a virtual museum of her life, filled with photos and memorabilia of her past.   Emilie died in 1943.   She had written a song called, "Picture In My Heart."   I do not know the lyrics.  I like to imagine it was a picture of her with the Reverend.  

The Church of All Nations closed it's doors for the last time sometime in the mid-1970's.   The neighborhood was changing rapidly and the building was starting to decay.    Attempts to save it had for years after, failed.  It was demolished only a few years ago.  

During the demolition many who attended the Church as children had come to watch and mourn, and shed a tear.  Actually, many tears were shed.   I saw this with my own eyes because I was there, too.  I watched at the cruel wrecking ball did its inevitable work.   I watched as brick by brick, once venerated building came crashing to the ground.   I could swear I heard the happy laughter of children, the music of a dance band, and the solemn singing of a hymn, emanating from the ruins.   Others said that they heard it, too.  

I asked the foreman of the job if he had found anything he thought might be of sentimental value in the rubble.   He paused, and said, "Wait here."   He walked away and returned in only a moment carrying a small, brass plaque.   "Would this be of any interest?" 

I wiped the plaque clean.    It read, simply, and beautifully: 

"THE STONEHILL MEMORIAL ROOM

In Memory of the Years

Of Service of the

REV.  WILLIAM STONEHILL 

and 

MRS.  EMILIE STONEHILL"

I had, at the time, no idea who these people were.   But I was curious and I began to do research.   I discovered quite a lot, have presented some of it here.   

And now, you know the names of these saints of the Bowery.  And I'm glad.

OSWALD ACTED ALONE

On September 11th, 2001 at 11:07 a.m., about 15 minutes after WTC 2 had collapsed, a CNN reporter claimed that another building, 50 stories tall, had collapsed.   He was not any more specific than that.  This was almost six hours before WTC 7 (47 stories) collapsed.  

The BBC announced, about 20 minutes before it happened, that WTC 7 had collapsed.    It later apologized for the "mistake."

Hundreds of New York City firefighters and police were told that WTC 7 was "being brought down," or, "was about to come down," or, "was going to explode," or some variation on those words, as long as 4 hours before it happened.  

No steel framed building had ever fallen or collapsed due to fire.   Until 9/11/01 when it happened three times.

Hundreds of witness, reporters, firefighters, police and civilians  reported hearing and seeing explosions and secondary explosions in all three buildings before they collapsed.     The official explanation of the collapse of the buildings state that there were no explosions.

And Oswald acted alone.  

AT THE CHATHAM THEATER

AT THE CHATHAM THEATER

 Chatham Theater, New York City (c. 1850) 

A benefit for Dick Pehlam, featuring, "The Virginia Minstrels."

Four musicians formed a band.   Frank Brower played the "bones," (sticks) Dan Emmett, the violin, Billy Whitlock, the banjo, and R. W. Pelham, the tambourine.   They opened the show with, "De Boatman Dance."    They played a lively, newly style of music, loosely based on what was perceived to be the music of the Southern black slave.  They danced, told jokes, interacted with the audience, sang songs of great wit and pathos.   It was exotic and intoxicating, thrilling and moving, and in the end, caused a sensation that would last fifty or so years in one form or another, and the musical styles that descended from their music are still with us to this day.  They called themselves, The Virginia Minstrels.  Oh, and they wore burnt cork to darken their skin so as to appear to be black.  

That was the evening of January 31, 1843, at the Chatham Theater on Chatham Street in New York City and a completely new form of entertainment, and of style and ethos of music, known collectively as, "Blackface Minstrelsy," was born.   The result was that American popular music would take a turn that would determine and effect its very nature through to the present day.  For without the creative genius of these "minstrels," Scott Joplin does not write "The Maple Leaf Rag," or any other "ragtime" piece, as ragtime would not exist.  Nor, then, would there be any Dixieland Jazz out of New Orleans and Kansas City,  mainstream jazz  would never have evolved, no Rhythm n' Blues, no Country or Country Western as we know it, or even, later on, Rock and Roll.   It was the inventive genius of the early 19th century minstrel band that set all this in motion, that allowed these musical styles to exist.  

That night, on Chatham Street in what is now Chinatown in New York City, a new course for American popular music, what it would become, and how it would sound, was established, and music would be forever changed.

* * *

It is difficult, if not impossible, for us to fully understand the overwhelming success and popularity of what had been established that night on Chatham Street.   If we can put aside for a moment the revulsion we feel today toward the words,  "Negro Minstrelsy,"  we might begin to grasp that it was, for the audience of the time, a nation-wide (with the exception of the deep South) sensation, and it was the music that was the primary cause of that sensation. No one had heard such exciting and infectious music before. For an idea of just how much of sensation The Virginia Minstrels made that night, consider that in six months they were performing on the London stage and touring England.

Completely reviled today, minstrelsy as a whole, is completely misunderstood.   I will not attempt to set the record straight here.   Suffice it to say, there is something to be reviled.  But there is much, much more to be admired.  At its best a blackface minstrel show offered an evening featuring the nation's finest and most talented performers of both the white and black races.   On display was comedic genius (at times), high tragedy and low comedy, and best of all, wonderful and thrilling musical performers.   These were the staples of the original Minstrel "tradition," all forgotten today, as is so much of the past, particularly when it comes to popular culture, its musicians, singers and its various stylistic manifestations. 

*  *  *

As successful as minstrelsy was in the latter half of the 19th century it did not last with any success into the 20th.   Vaudeville had, by the 1890's, established itself as the "new" most popular form of entertainment.  And why not? It had a distinct advantage over the minstrel show:  it had girls!    (And I use the word, "girls,"  instead of, "women," not out of disrespect for the female gender, but because many of these ladies were, indeed, below legal age.   They just lied about their ages in order to work, a practice that continued well into the 20th century).  

The minstrel show was a exclusively a male-only endeavor.   Plus, minstrelsy had begun to grow bigger than its own audiences could relate to: by the 1880's many complained that it had lost it's charm and unique attractiveness, that it became bloated and overblown with huge casts, and sumptuous sets.   (But isn't that the fate of so many things that are successful in America?)    Lost were the "charm," of the "Negro melody," the many characters, portrayed therein, and the humor associated with those characters.  Characters of Irish, Italian, or German origins began to show up on the Minstrel stage in blackface!   This, of course, made no sense to traditionalists, but to newer audiences, the "burnt cork," was merely a mask, a convention of theatricality and entertainment, not a depiction of any race.    Please recall that the African-American was rarely seen by Northerners, and was considered something of an "exotic," not to mocked and derided but to be used as a vehicle for both comedy and melodramatic pathos.  Minstrelsy was a "northern," phenomenon which may explain why there was equally as much material devoted to the awful plight of the Southern black, as to "Jim Crow" characterizations.   Consider that most of those lovely and poignant songs by Stephen Foster about the cruelty of life for the Southern black, ("My Old Kentucky Home," for example) were written specifically for the Minstrel stage.   

By the turn of the 20th century minstrelsy so fallen out of popular tastes that when George M. Cohan himself attempted a revival of the minstrel show in 1908 with lavish sets, great and talented performers such as George "Honeyboy" Evans and Eddie Leonard, well-established, top vaudeville stars of the time, the show failed miserably.

And so, blackface minstrelsy passed, albeit slowly, into oblivion.  

But the music it established and help evolve continued on with it's snappy, syncopations, its unpredictable rhythms, and the melodic contours that contained the wailing of the south, (in the form of "blue" notes) carried on and flourished.   And there is not a single performer of any style of popular music today that does not directly come from out of these traditions.  

* * *

Today the Chatham Theater is a distant memory, if remembered at all; built in 1839 on Chatham Street between Roosevelt and James Streets the theater survived several fires and several name changes, but it was for a while one of New York City's most popular venues for live entertainment.   In 1862 it was finally demolished, though parts remained for a time to be used as storefronts by various shopkeepers.

* * *

Americans, by nature, do not like, "looking backward."  Everything, especially popular culture is aimed at youth and the present moment, as if nothing important happened before they were born.  We have become a myopic and deeply narcissistic society.  And history is something to be studied by "other people," specialists, not something that can speak to each of us, something to be held sacred,  as it holds within it the seeds of who were are today.  No, there is nothing to be learned by looking backward.

Chatham Street has been renamed, "Park Row," Roosevelt and James Street no longer exist at all.  No one, or very few at least, even know that there was once a hugely popular theater there.   Names such as Joel Sweeney,  Dan Emmett, Jack Diamond, even Lew Dockstader, truly household names, names that evoked feelings of joy and the excitement of live entertainment, are now known only to the rare scholar.  And even their numbers are dwindling.

The memory of that night in 1843 has long faded;  those in attendance, both on stage and in the audience, were probably long dead by the turn of the last century.  But what those four men in blackface accomplished that night lives on, through the years, (now over one-hundred and seventy) through wars and drought and depressions, and changing ethnic populations. Who could have predicted all this on that cold January night when four gifted entertainers donned burnt cork at the Chatham?   Who could have known that these four stage professionals experimenting with a new sound, who sang, danced and told jokes, would create a new form of musical expression and expressiveness  that would resonate around the world, in us all, forever?  

No one cares, or can even appreciate the import of that night.

And so, there is nothing, not a sign, or a plaque, or anything, to mark the spot upon which that event, without question the single most important night in the history of American popular music, occurred. 

On the Polonaise-Fantasie of Chopin

The Polonaise-Fantasie is a piece of music for piano written by Frederic Chopin who is generally regarded to be the greatest composer of piano music who ever lived.   And rightly so.  His music is universally loved and performed throughout the world more than a century and a half after his death.   As a composer he is second to none (okay, Bach).    His melodic inventiveness, the unique quality of his ideas, his craftsmanship, his overall compositional genius are all on conspicuous display upon serious listening.   Among his greatest large-scale works are the Ballades in A-flat and F-minor, the Barcarolle, the Fantasie in F-minor and the already mentioned Polonaise-Fantasie.

The Polonaise-Fantasie is an especially interesting, indeed curious work.   The "polonaise," is a specific form of music based on a courtly Polish dance.  In Chopin's hands the polonaise is a powerful, almost militaristic piece, with sharp rhythmic delineation and a frequent march-like quality; the "fantasy" is a genre of music whose prominent features are surprise, unpredictability and the suggestion of improvisation.   To combine the two forms seems impossible, if not, unappealing.  Yet, Chopin does, because he is, after all, a genius of the first rank.   How it came to him to create such a piece is not known.  

But in spite of the obvious disparate nature of the two musical forms what Chopin accomplishes in work is no less than brilliant.  It is music of such power and beauty that one must stand back in awe.

Now, I could, as could any musicologist with my gifted insight into music, give you examples of how Chopin manages to combine the two forms and it would be dry, meaningless, and quite boring.   I could point to the typical polonaise rhythms, the flights of fancy, the extraordinary passages of tonal ambiguity and transition so critical to the fantasy style.  I could describe in detail, extraordinary passages that portray the astonishing development and exploitation of the musical material.  I could do that and put you to sleep.   Because the real genius of this music lay elsewhere.   Certainly, these simple analytical elements are important, no doubt.   But they do not speak to genius, they do not explain the sublime.  They may, indeed, aid the journey there, to be sure, but they are not the goal in themselves.  As I said, that sublime, perfected vision of beauty lay elsewhere in the music.   Where?   I do not know.   It is a mystery, thank God.  

And so,  I stand, yet again, in awe of this short-lived Polish genius.  

I'm sorry if I've disappointed you.   But go!  Listen to the music.

About Ugly Sam

~ UGLY SAM ~

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

A short profile of Ugly Sam

Written for posterity

 

By Ollie Dee

, Ollie Dee of Toyland, have been charged by our leader, Muggsy Mee, to write, for posterity, a series of short profiles of our members, more specifically, the members of the Mystic Knights of the Sea.  I gladly do this with respect to future generations and according to my belief that no one can say what the future will bring—whether any knowledge of the Knights, our work, who we were or what we stood for, or of our existence will last through the ages.  One must wonder, even, if Toyland itself should disappear not only from the map, but also from memory as other civilizations have.  

This, then, may survive to tell our story at least in part.

Ugly Sam is the youngest of 15 children.  Truth be told he was the product of an illicit affair between his mother and Stannie Dumm.  Sam does not know this.  He probably wouldn’t understand it if you were to tell him anyway.  Poor Sam is a bit, well, challenged.

Now Sam is really not ugly.  He is just a tad unkempt—well, very unkempt.  And he has this “thing” about wearing the same striped clothes all the time, but we’ll get into that later.  If we didn’t insist he bathe weekly we would be forced to kill him for the stench.   But he does, and is happy doing it. 

You must understand that he wasn’t always that way, that is, a slob in the extreme.  He wasn’t always that much of a lunatic either.  He was almost what you might call “normal” during his childhood and young adult years during which time he was considered quite handsome.  Then, things started to change, through chance, poor choices and bad luck.  But do not pity Ugly Sam.  He’s happy living in his world of half-comprehension and fantasy.  He is capable of some remarkable insights, like the idiot savant who can add hundreds of numbers in an instant or tell you what day of the week October 3, 1258 fell on.  But most of the time he’s a blithering fool.  And that’s what we love about him.  He keeps us, in a way, “real,” as they like to say; he gives us perspective on ourselves.  For, you see, I believe that there is a little bit of Ugly Sam in all of us.  Maybe even a lot.

We all have certain traits or attributes that, at times, work to our detriment.  These very same traits may also work in one’s favor as happened one day, when Ugly Sam, about twelve years old, was running an errand for the Butcher, the Baker and the Candlestick Maker.  They wanted to play some numbers or this week’s gross poundage at the cattle market.  But the regular runner, Clyde the Glide, was sick with a case of gonorrhea he contacted visiting a lady in Brocktenshire.  So, Ugly Sam was “Johnny on the Spot,” to take up his mantle.

“Now, Sam,” said the Baker, “just bring this piece of paper over to the barber shop, and tell Sal that it’s from us.  You got that, Sam?  Tell him it’s from us. Okay?”

“You got it!”  Sam was all business.  “Sal the barber; ‘it’s from us.’ No problem. Sal the barber; it’s from us.”

“That’s right, little Sam.  And here’s a little something for you.” The butcher handed Sam a half a crown.

“Wow!  Thanks, Mr. Baker.”

So off Sam went with 50 crowns in gold to be wagered at the barbershop, which necessitated he pass through a rather dense section of woodland.  Sure enough, out of the forest came a black hooded horseman who approached the young Sam.

“And where are you running to in such a hurry, young man?”

“Oh, I’ve got to bring this to Sal the barber.  It’s very important.”

“Sal the barber, eh?  Well, I’m on my way there now.  Why not give it to me, and I’ll deliver it for you?”

“Oh, no.  No can do.  Sorry.  I’ve got a message to tell Sal, too. It’s from us.”

“A message?  Pray what might that message be?”

“It’s from us.”

“Indeed it is, but what is the message?”

“It’s from us.”

“Yes, I understand that. But tell me specifically, good sir, not who is it from but what the message itself is.”

“The message?”

“Yes.”

“It’s from us.”

The masked gentlemen turned on his horse and rode off, not having the patience to pursue this any further.

That’s the way it goes for Sam.

His mother, Beatrice the Seamstress, once told me that Sam could have been a great lawyer, or doctor, or even a scientist.  Of course, she said this while hanging upside down from a tree and conducting a non-existent bug orchestra.  His mom is not “all there,” if you know what I mean, and I guess Sam inherited some of it.  His dad, Orson the Tall, is a fine carpenter who speaks, and sometimes argues, with his wooden creations.  For six months he refused to speak to the night table until it apologized.  It did, and he was very happy.  He once made a credenza with which he did not get along at all, selling it eventually to Mr. Barnaby.  Every time he walked past Barnaby’s house, Orson and the credenza would start to argue vehemently.  Of course, one could only hear the part of the argument spoken by Sam’s dad.  One day, he had to be dragged away by three of the King’s Men, as he shouted threats and expletives to the damn thing.

They all live in a tree house that they call, Samtopia, after Sam’s maternal Grandfather, Samuel, who was a great and famous philosopher-shoemaker.  He believed that an ideal society could be achieved if people wore shoes on their feet and on their heads, with himself as the philosopher-king-shoemaker.  He called this society, alternatively, Samtopia, or Shoetopia.  You will occasionally see a Toylander with shoes on their heads.  They are celebrating Samuel’s birthday and keeping the dream alive.

So you can see that there is a rich heritage of eccentricity in Ugly Sam’s background to which he then added greatly.  But his parents loved him and raised him to have a kind heart and a love of all creatures. 

Sam once shared this little tidbit with me: one day when he was quite young, coming home from school, he decided to take off his pants. “Why should I have to wear pants all the time?” he told a schoolmate.  Already a revolutionary at age five! Being so young he did not fully grasp the concept of modesty.  So there he went, marching proudly in the town square, his tiny tool and hiney exposed for all to see.  He received odd looks, some smiles, and lots of “oh, isn’t he cute.”  He went home and there was no real problem.  The problem would come 18 years later when, at 23 years of age, he decided to re-enact his display of individualism.  There he was walking through the square his privates displayed in all their hairy glory.  You can imagine the reactions of the townspeople.  He served two months in the King’s prison.

Probably the most damaging of the many damaging events that occurred to Sam’s overall sanity occurred during a delivery of rubbing oils to Mr. Barnaby.  Upon completing the delivery, Sam took a wrong turn, spun himself around, and fell ass backwards into Barnaby’s well.  When Sam regained consciousness he was no longer in Toyland.  He had no idea where he was but he was in front of a huge edifice, which read

Honeywell & Todd

No matter, though—Sam couldn’t read.

“Say you all right, young man?” asked a police officer.

“I…I think so.  But… But…where am I? Is this Toyland?”

“Okay, okay, take it easy.  Looks like you’ve taken quite a blow to the head.”

Suddenly, Sam spotted Mr. Barnaby exiting the large structure.  He was wearing a magnificent Brooks Brothers three-piece gray-flannel striped suit, and a red carnation.  His shoes sparkled with shine and a cadre of assistants and hangers accompanied him.

“Mr. Barnaby, Mr. Barnaby!  Help me!” he shouted. “Please help me!”

Barnaby, of course, wanted no part in this at all.

“Uh, officer, I believe this man to be mad.”  

“I take it you are not Mr. Barnaby.”

The men surrounding Barnaby started laughing.

“No, no, indeed.” He turned toward Sam, “I’m sure I must resemble this ‘Barnaby’ you speak of, young man, but I am not he.”   Barnaby then scooted into a large limousine and was driven away.

“Wow!” said Sam, “It could have been his brother.”

“Now, now, son, take it easy, I think a trip to the hospital would do you good.”

“Really? Okay. The hospital.  Yeah, the hospital.  They’ll help me.” Of course Sam had no idea what a hospital actually was but the cop spoke so confidently, with such calm assurance, that he could not help but agree.

“I suspect a neurological trauma, as a result of the sustaining of a blow, possibly with a blunt instrument on the cranium, likely near the cerebellum, but as there are so many lumps it’s difficult to isolate the actual one,” said Dr. Abruzzi who was the staff’s expert on head trauma.  

”I will prescribe that the patient be brought to the institute on Long Island where he can be cared for, treated und studied.”

Once safely ensconced on Long Island, Dr. Abruzzi brought his new patient before an audience of psychiatrists.

“Now, tell me again, young man, where do you live?”

“Toyland, on the Saint Elmo’s River.”

“Ah.  And who is the leader there?”

“King Cole.”

“I see.  And in what kind of structure do you live?”

“I live in a lovely house in large maple tree with my folks, just a simple tree house, nothing spectacular but it has nice views.  And it’s just across the field from Mother Goose’s place.”

“Oh, yah, yah!  Trauma; dis is severe trauma.    Dr. Abruzzi stood. “Don’t worry, young man, we’ll take good care of you.”

One day, during a particularly difficult session, Sam made an astute observation:

“Doctor, you seem stressed.”

“Oh…I’m stressed,” the doctor replied. “Trauma!  You have severe trauma!”  

“Doctor, perhaps, I think you should lie down,” Sam advised, remembering that his mother advised the same thing when Sam was stressed.

“Me?  Lie down?  Impossible!  Too busy!  Too many gay men in denial!  Too much craziness!  Ach!”

“But doctor!  Think of your own health!” Sam was adamant.

“Perhaps you’re right.  Maybe I’ll just lie here for a moment…” he dropped onto a nearby cot and began to breathe deeply.

“That’s better.  Now, I want you to think of the pixie’s on the lake, and rainbows, and those beautiful yellow flowers that sing when the sun shines…” Sam was merely remembering things his mom had said to him under similar circumstances.  “Now doctor, close your eyes…take a deep breath and think of stars…”

The doctor fell into a deep sleep.

Now the practice of psychology at this time was still rather strange in this flexure place as far as I could deduce from Sam’s recollections.  In some parts of that country, they would actually cut out parts of the brain!  Ohh.  Thank goodness that didn’t happen to Sam.  But he was put on a series of experimental drugs designed to restore brain function and psychological balance, and tranquilize him, which caused him to go completely insane, running out into a nearby field shouting all manner of gibberish.  Once off the drugs he improved greatly but was never quite the same.  It was at this point that he refused to wear anything other than the damned striped uniform given him at the sanatorium.

Sam liked the sanatorium quite a lot.  People were friendly and the food was great.  But he missed Toyland. 

“I miss Toyland, Dr. Abruzzi.  I want to go back.”

“And just how do you propose to do this, young man?”

“I’ll just go back the way I came, near that tall building where you found me.”

“I see.  You know, Sam, as your doctor I must say that I don’t think it wise to leave just yet.  Can I ask you to be patient and let us try to help you find your way?”

“Okay, doctor. Okay,” Sam said, having, however, already made up his mind to leave that night.

And so, Ugly Sam made his escape from the Eckstein-Wide Institute for Mental Health.  He walked back to the large city, crossing the Great Queensbuckle Bridge by 8:00 pm.  The sun was going down behind the tall towers of the city creating a magnificent sunset, which made a compelling sight from the bridge. 

“Wow, what a place!” said Sam.  “It’s like a magical Kingdom by the sea!”

He stood enjoying sunset from the middle of the bridge, wept at its beauty, then made his way into Manhattan. 

On 48^th street a tall, shapely, dark woman addressed him.

“Hi.  Going out tonight, honey?”

“Uh, going home, actually.”

“Tired honey?”

“A little. I’ve just had a long walk.”

“Well, I know how to make you feel better.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Well, first, you have to come with me, up to my place,” she stood close to him, stroking his arm with her fingertips, “and then I can make you feel so good.”

Sam followed the oddly dressed young black girl to her crowded apartment up the street. 

A man sat at a desk in the living room.

“That’ll be $40 bucks for the massage, any arrangements you make with the girl in the room is strictly between the two of you.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Uh, forty bucks please.”

“Sorry?”

“Forty bucks.”

“Forty bucks.”

“Yes, it’s forty dollars for a massage.  What are you a foreigner?”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you have any money?”

“Ah!” said Sam. “ I have this.”  It was the four silver pieces Sam was given to make the delivery to Mr. Barnaby back in Toyland.

“Wow.  Uh, well, uh, I guess one of those silver coins should do.”  They sure should, as they were worth about one hundred dollars each.

“Oh, great.  Now can Chantella make me feel better?”

“Pal, she’ll make you feel great.  Okay, Chantella.”

This was Sam’s first sexual experience.  On the way out, he told the man at the desk that he was absolutely right.

Well, it took Sam a couple of days but he finally stumbled upon the Honeywell and Todd building.  He then lay down on the floor in the position he gained consciousness.  And waited.  And waited.  A crowd gathered. 

“You all right, son?”

“Is he all right?”

“What wrong with him, should we call an ambulance?”

“He’s okay.  He’s just a magician!”

“He’s works with the city. He’s examining the sidewalks!”

Eventually it became dark and quiet.  Sam, getting depressed thought he heard voices.  He did.  But no people.  He followed the voices…soon, mist, strange visions and eventually, Barnaby’s well.  He climbed up, and went home to the happy welcome of his parents.  And the night table.

Addendum

Sam had breakfast the following morning at the Fairy Land Tavern and Inn meeting his good friend, Jack Horner there.

“Good morning, Sam,” Jack offered, sitting at the counter with Sam, adding, “What’s new?”

“Ah, nothing much, nothing much, Jack.  Nothing much.  Say, Jack. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, Sam.”

“Okay.  What does, ‘Martin and Lewis at the Copa’ mean?”

“Jeez, Sam, I’m not sure. Why?”

“Well, I got lost visiting this village and that’s all everyone was talking about.”

FEDER'S THEME

Titled, "Intermezzo," this is a story that is unrelated to the surrounding main chapter of "Toyland," from which is comes.    The "Feder" is a half-man, half hairy beast, who's spends most of his time eating at the Fairy Land Inn.   He is large.   He is also gay, as are most of the clientele of the Ye Olde Fairy Land Tavern.   But they do not discriminate and all are welcome.   

INTERMEZZO

A knock at the door of the Fairy Land Tavern meant a stranger was about to enter as the regular customers and locals knew that one normally just walked in.   Miss Mary Contrary, being nearest the door walked over and opened it.  All eyes stared as the stranger walked in and presented himself.

Speaking with a thick French accent the gentleman announced, “Good evening all.  I am a traveler seeking comfort and lodging.”

“Well, then, come in, your making a draft, silly,” said Dickie the Bell Ringer, who was immediately attracted to the dashing figure of the man.  “I beg you, sit at my table, tall, and handsome stranger.”

“My thanks for your kindness.”

“Damn!” said Puss N’ Boots.  “That Dickie is one fast worker.”

“What is your name, stranger?” asked Dickie.

“My name is Alexis De Toqueville, and I am traveling around America seeking to understand this strange and wonderful country.”

“America?” asked Feder the Wolf.

“Mon Dieu!” shouted De Toqueville. “A talking beast!”

“It’s all right,” said Dickie, “Believe me, he’s only a beast when he’s eating!”

“But he…it’s hands…all that hair…what…?”

“Sir,” said Feder, “I am a member of the rare and uniquely gifted breed of wolves, known collectively as Feders.  We have many human characteristics.”

“Indeed!   Your hands have both claw and human hand characteristics, as does your face!”

“His member is not human, trust me on that!” offered the oldest of the Three Pigs.  “I thought died and gone to heaven!”

“But… but…”

“Yes, I’m also gay,” Feder said, munching on some fries.

“Astonishing.”

“Oh, yes, he’s quite the lover. But sex is not his most serious passion.”

Everyone laughed.

“And what might that be?” asked de Toqueville.

The Feder simply laughed and pointed to his gut.

“Ah, a bit heavy in the middle.”

“Yes, I’ve tried joining a health club, running, acupuncture, even hypnosis.”

“Have you tried dieting?”

Howls of laughter filled the Tavern as…

(Music up.)

The Feder’s Song*

*Sung to the tune of “Show Me” from Lerner and Loewe’s “My Fair Lady”

Give me a steak,

Followed by cake,

Add a milk shake,

Feed me!

It makes me hard,

To think of lard,

Is that meat charred?

Feed me!

Here we are together in the middle of a meal,

Listen to how,

It makes me squeal!

Open up the Twinkies let us eat them by the pack!

Isn’t it time for a snack?

Lobsters and rice,

Isn’t that nice?

To be concise:

Feed me!

Horsemeat is fine,

Gallons of wine,

Chunks of porcine!

Feed me!

Gather all the pork chops and deliver them right here,

What makes you think,

I don’t like beer?

When the bacon’s frying I will salivate a pool,

Look at the way that I drool!

Reach for my pie,
You’ll lose and eye,

Do I look high?

Feed me.

Feed me!

If you’ll allow,

I’ll take some chow,

Now, say good-bye to this cow,

 

Feeeeeeeeeeeed ME NOW!

“Well, I think we can put aside all doubt as to what his true passion is,” said Dickie.

MIRACLE IN JULY

 One of the favorite stories from the Toyland series:  

~ MIRACLE IN JULY ~

blistering heat wave engulfed Toyland and surrounding areas for a good part May and all of July.   The parched earth begged for water—none was coming.  Strong men, working in the fields or streets of Toyland passed out from heat stroke.  Everywhere tension was high and nerves were frayed.  But this day the tension and frustration grew even greater as it was the day the summations to the jury in the trial of Jo-Jo the Piper’s Son were to be given and in all likelihood, the verdict itself.

 “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence against Jo-Jo the Piper is, as you can plainly see, overwhelming.  You must, according to your charges, convict the defendant and return with a guilty verdict.”  Wee Willie Shat bowed deeply to the jury and took his place at the prosecutor’s table.

Outside and inside the courtroom an ugly “blood fever” gripped the once peaceful town of Toyland, for outside the Magistrate’s court, Muggsy and the entire troop of the Mystic Knights of the Sea surrounded the building.  They were clad in peasant clothes that easily concealed their weapons.  Those weapons included swords, clubs, maces and all manner of stick with nails in them.  They were prepared for a violent conflict if a guilty verdict was handed down, which was a virtual certainty.  And that would just be the beginning.  It was clear now that a complete purge of the government was necessary beginning with the Magistrate himself, who must be killed, they believed, along with his entire staff, and whatever member’s of the King’s Men that remained loyal to them, falling short of killing the King himself, whom was still held in almost mythical regard.  They would not kill him, but his role would be reduced to that of figurehead, a King without real power, the real power going to the people of Toyland in the form of a rudimentary republic based on that of the ancient legends. 

Inside and around the perimeter of the wooden building, stood 200 members of the King’s Men, bristling with armor, staffs, swords and daggers at the ready.  They had been warned of a possible uprising. 

As word got around town that the Mystic Knights were present and ready to fight, the townspeople began to choose sides and arm themselves.  Other armed themselves without choosing sides, but simply to protect themselves, as that need seemed inevitable.

Tension soared as did the thermometer, which at noon read, 235 degrees platypus.    The crowd grew in number as the hot summer sun rose in the sky.   Thirst, heat, and the mounting dryness, made everyone more uncomfortable and short tempered.  And the jury deliberated.

The town's well became a place where occasional fisticuffs broke out, and although calmer heads prevailed, the fear of violence increased and thus increased its own likelihood.   

“I thirst!  Make way, as I will get to the well!” shouted Cornelius the Potter, pushing aside a young woman with a child.

“Sir!  You are no gentlemen!” said Dennis, the weaver,” drawing his sword.   “Stand and fight, man.”  They would have killed one another but

just then, someone shouted. “The jury has returned!  The jury has returned!”   

We, the jury, find the defendant Joey-Jo-Jo the Piper's Son, guilty of treason.

The courtroom emptied and all those inside spilled out onto the street, but there was nowhere to go as the streets were now filled with people. Jo-Jo wrists were bound together as he tried to shield his eyes from the brilliant sun. The verdict, combined with the soaring heat, the shouting, shrieking and all the tumult caused Jo-Jo to pass out.  The mob and all of the soldiers, the guards and King’s Men—everyone who was there—gripped their weapons tightly. 

 Bloodshed of  Biblical proportions was imminent.  

I could not stand it any longer.  It was time; I made up my mind to intervene.

“Stop it!  I shouted from a tall platform that suddenly appeared on the steps of the Court.  “Stop it at once all of you!”

“Who the hell are you?” Muggsy asked removing the hood covering his head. 

“Never mind who I am,” I said.  “This must stop.  You are all about to destroy yourselves in a ridiculous display of senseless violence!”

“Ah, go on!  We know what we’re doing,” snapped Muggsy, “Now shut up or we’ll cut your head off as well!”

“Oh, no you won’t!” I responded.

“Oh, really?” said Muggsy, defiantly. “Let’s see.” He began to approach me.

“Cut his head off!”

“Kill him!  Kill him!”

“Kill the stranger!”

Suddenly, just as Muggsy’s was about to cut me in half with a stroke of his broadsword it transformed into a long, green stem with an oversized sunflower at the end of it.

“What the…?  Are you a magician?  Go away, we don’t need magicians here!”

“I am not a magician.  But you are powerless against me,” I said.  “Now put down your weapons and go home.”

“I’ll kill you mahself, you interloper!” shouted Kingfish, running at me, dagger in hand.

“Freeze, Kingfish,” I said, and Kingfish’s feet stuck to the ground as if they had been nailed down.  “Holy mackerel!  And how did he know my name? And why is mah feets stuck?”

“Who is he?”

“What form of devil is this?”

“Men!  Seize him!” shouted Willie Shat.  A group of armed thugs brandished their swords and headed toward me.  I smiled, and said, “Don’t waste your energy.”  With that, the men were pulled about 10 feet off the ground and held their place there, their legs pumping furiously beneath them.

“Now, now, Magistrate,” I said. “Dear Mr. Shat, don’t you realize that in spite of your terrible affliction that you may accomplish great things?  Why not live an enlightened life—a life of beneficence and good will; a life dedicated for the welfare of mankind, as opposed to a life of bitter, unfulfilled ambition?”

“What?  What condition?  I know not of what you speak!  This man is mad!  Mad I tell you!”

I had no choice but to come clean.

“Good people of Toyland, this may be difficult for you to understand but I, um…I am the author of this story.  My name is Joe Ciolino.”

Roars of laughter resounded throughout the square. 

“He’s mad!”  
"What kind of a stupid name is that?" 

“He’s a mad demon!”

“Either that or he’s a mad fool!”  More laughter.

“No, it is true.  I am responsible for everything that has happened here.  Well, me and this other guy, but that’s not important.  I have created this mess and now, I’m going to end it.”

“Now I know you’re mad!” said Muggsy.  “Prove to us, if you can, that you are the so-called, ‘author.’”

“Okay, uh…how?”

“Well if you are the author you could make it rain, right now.”

A loud thunder rolled across the valley as clouds formed with a sudden downpour of heavy rain that lasted for exactly thirty seconds.

“Hey, that felt good,” said Muggsy. “But mere coincidence.”

“Oh, really?” I said, “How about this—

Suddenly there appeared on the Court steps, Ava Gardner, Bette Davis, Joan Blondell, and Dorothy Lamour. 

“How about that?” I said, proudly.

“How about what?  Ha! Four dames?  A poor trick!  I’ve seen magicians at the fairs in France do more than that.”

“Yes but that’s Bette Davis!”

“Who?”

“Oh, crap.  I forgot you don’t know these people.  Okay girls, thanks.”

The girls disappeared.

“Okay, now listen.  Tell me what can I do to prove to you that I am the author.”

There was grumbling and exchanges of ideas throughout but no suggestions that could not be attributed to hokey magic tricks or mere coincidence and without doubt to authorship.

“There must be something I can do!  There must be!”

We went back and forth, with suggestions ideas and I made several demonstrations of various kinds, including at one point turning half the townspeople into cows and back again.  None of it convinced anyone without doubt that I was who I claimed to be.

“I give up,” I said.  “Go ahead, if you want to kill yourselves, be my guest.”
“Hoo-rah!  Let’s go men!”  The Mystic Knights charged, swords and weapons blazing.  The townspeople began to fight each other. The King’s Men and soldiers loosed their swords from their sheaths.  

“Wait!”  I had finally come up with something. Everyone stopped in their tracks.

Pointing with grand gesture to the Northern sky I said, “Behold!” a la Charlton Heston, out of the sky appeared…a miniature sleigh with eight tiny reindeer.

“Santa!  It’s Santa Claus!”

“Santa in July!?!  Tis a miracle!”          

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa’s hearty laughter could be heard as his swept across the rooftops, circled the town square and landed softly on the small green lawn in front of the Court House. 

“Well, well, well, Hellooooooo, good people of Toyland!  Greetings!  Greetings and felicitations!  What’s this?  A special holiday? A parade?  What festivities have I stumbled upon?” 

Ugly Sam blurted out “It’s a bloody revolution, Santa!”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaa?” cried Santa.

“No! No!” shouted Muggsy.  “No, Santa, it’s uh…we’ve all gathered to…uh…um…”

The King’s Men turned away sheepishly, looking down at their feet, or staring into the sky, or whistling nonchalantly. 

“It’s just a…uh…”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!  Speak man, I have gifts to give out!”

“Santa has gifts!”

“He’s brought us gifts!  Gifts in July!”

“Tis truly a miracle!”

“Yes,” Santa spoke.  “I decided to make a special trip to Toyland because of all the towns and villages of the world, yours is the one closest to my heart.  Your people are kind and wise, and you value peace and respect of your fellow man above all else.”

\
“Yes! Peace and respect for all mankind!” cried Muggsy, hiding his sword again.

“Peace and respect!” shouted the mob.

Soon all the guardsmen soldiers and the entire town were waving their weapons shouting, “Peace and respect!”

It took Santa about six hours to hand out all his gifts. Muggsy got a new shaving soap holder, Kingfish got the complete scores of Duke Ellington, and each soldier received fishing equipment of the finest craftsmanship.

Wee Willie Shat got a new chess set (he loved chess).  The townspeople were thrilled to receive anything in the middle of July that they didn’t have to pay for. 

“Ho! Ho! Ho!  And now, I must leave you… you know, there are many places in the world that Santa is terrified to visit—they are very dangerous.  But they need me most of all because they have forgotten the true message of Christmas!   But you, good people of Toyland, you live it every day of the year.  You have kept the true meaning of Christmas alive!”

“Hoo-rah!” the crowd bellowed.

“Damn,” Kingfish whispered to Muggsy.  “Dis Santa be way out of touch.”

“Shut up!” Muggsy reprimanded.  “Peace and respect!”

“Farewell, good people of Toyland!”

“Farewell, Santa!”

“Good-bye!  See you at Christmas!”

Soldiers, guardsmen, all smiling and waving doffed their caps or helmets; everyone waved farewell with gusto.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!  On Dasher, on Dancer, on Donner and Blitzen…” Santa’s sleigh lifted off the ground and soared into the sky.   “Ho!  Ho!  Ho!” cried Santa, disappearing over the mountaintop.  (MUSIC)

As everyone basked in the glory of Santa’s visit, I strolled over to Muggsy.

“So, Mr. Mee, do you believe me now?”

“Hah?” said Muggsy, still examining his gift.

“You must believe me now.  I made Santa appear in July.  I brought you Santa!”

“Oh, please,” he said, dismissively.  “You heard him.  He came because he loves us.  We keep the true meaning of Christmas alive!”

“Oh, that’s it!  I can’t take it anymore.  I’m leaving,” I said, and stormed off.

“Good.” Said Muggsy.

“But before I go…” I waved my hand (simply for effect, of course, all I had to do, really, was type it) and all the townspeople were suddenly stark staring nude.

“Ha! Take that! I  did that!  That’s right!” I boasted.

“Hey! Now that we’re all nude let’s all run down to the river!” Muggsy shouted.

“Yes! To the river!”

“Last one in is a rotten plum,” Jack Horner shouted.

“This is so amazing!” said Dickie the Bell-ringer. “I had this same dream last night!”  Yes, the townspeople, the soldiers, the King’s Men, Jo-Jo, the Mystic Knights, even Wee Willie Shat, who suddenly, thanks to Dickie the Bell ringer, discovered that he could, in fact, achieve hardness, all frolicked in the river, enjoying all manner of innocent fun and a little wet debauchery.   Here, Willie Shat, arms outstretched, and revealing to all that the appellation “Wee” was no longer appropriate, shouted “Truly, this is a miracle!”.

“If dis be da true meanin’ o’ Christmas, den mah name is Harry Truman!” noted the Kingfish.

nd so, peace, joy, and brotherly love once more reigned over Toyland.  Well, not exactly.  But it was close.